THE KILLDEER 



"T'check! T'check! T'chee!" cried a whole flock of Black- 

 birds, the sun flashing on their iridescent satin wings and sleek 

 heads, as they circled about or stepped gracefully along the fur- 

 row, searching for grubs. Somber-coated Crows cawed in full- 

 fed satisfaction, and plump-breasted Robins cried "Kip, kip! Cut 

 cut, cut!" in exultation over each juicy morsel. There was the 

 azure flash of the Bluebird's wing as he occasionally stopped 

 searching for nest locations along the old snake fence and in 

 the high stumps and darted down for some small insect. There 

 was the plaintive cry of the Killdeers, and the silver gleam of their 

 snowy underwings and breasts as they hung over a pool, fed by 

 wells drilled to produce oil and contrarily producing water; and 

 Meadow Larks left their nests in the adjoining wheat-field, and 

 from high stumps and fence riders made excursions to secure 

 their share of the feast, returning again to proclaim the season 

 with notes of piercing melody. 



Twenty fields had been passed in the process of spring plow- 

 ing that day, and a few scared birds hanging about the fences 

 or scattering before the crack of a shot-gun were all that could be 

 seen. There was only one John above whom they swarmed in 

 absolute confidence ; there was only one John who paused a second 

 now and then to kick open big pieces of muck, or stooped to break 

 it with his hands and fling the grubs to the birds. And was he not 

 wise ? Was not their trust in him, the company they were to him, 

 and the music they made for him a soul-feast for any man? Was 

 not every grub and worm eaten then one less to prey on his young 

 crop later? 



Long before I reached the stake set to guide me a clear, 

 musical "Te-dit! Te-dit!" rang from a sentinel above the swamp, 

 and straight toward me on slender stilt-legs a female Killdeer 

 came running. Then she uttered a sharp cry and turned to the 



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